


To See If The Vines Have Budded

by the_ragnarok



Series: Happy Endings [5]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Other, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames stole them a PASIV, and Arthur does too have an imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To See If The Vines Have Budded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/gifts).



"Oh my God," Arthur says. "Oh my God." He's been repeating variations on that theme for more than ten minutes now. It's almost making Eames feel inadequate.

But then Arthur turns a brilliant smile on him and breathes, "You stole us a PASIV," and nobody in the world could feel less than godly with Arthur looking at him like that.

"That I did." Eames is not a believer in false modesty. "I have also taken the liberty of arranging for some prime-quality somnacin."

Arthur is already putting the IV bags in their place. "Oh, God, is this Yusuf's latest batch?" Eames doesn't actually need to answer this, considering that Yusuf's mark is prominently displayed on the bags. The bags which Arthur is fondling to a degree that makes Eames frown again.

"You should be careful," Eames says. "Praising other men in my hearing like that. I'll have you know I have a very fragile ego."

Arthur snorts. Eames curses himself for finding it charming. "Like fuck you do," Arthur says, but the sting is taken away when he wraps his arms around Eames. "Your ego could stand up to a minor asteroid strike. I've calculated it."

"What is it with you and asteroids," Eames says. He's saying it into Arthur's hair, though, so he can't exactly be miffed.

"I'm not answering that," Arthur says. "You're just angling to make a pun about heavenly bodies." He tightens his arms sufficiently that Eames considers gasping for air. "And _you stole us a PASIV_. Oh my _God_."

"Careful. It'll go straight to my head if you carry on like that." Eames cradles the back of Arthur's head in his palm, scratching lightly as an incentive for Arthur to stay where he is. If Arthur can't see Eames' enormous grin, Arthur can't mock him. Although Arthur really has no business pointing fingers at Eames right now.

Arthur is content to have his head scratched for only a short moment, sadly, but then he says, "Come on! Last one under's a rotten egg!"

"You did not just say that," Eames says, incredulously. That, it appears, was a tactical mistake, because in the time he took to say that Arthur efficiently lay down and plugged himself in, so that by the time Eames went under he found himself coming into the dreamscape naked and smelling faintly of sulfur.

The smell, thankfully, wafts away after a few minutes, but for all of Eames' attempts, he cannot dream himself into any kind of clothing. He briefly considers being vexed by this before realizing that it means Arthur wants him naked. There is no possible universe in which Eames is opposed to that.

It is, however, vexing that Arthur is nowhere to be found. Eames finds himself wandering a landscape utterly unlike what they normally favor for jobs. _That_ is all office buildings and childhood homes. This is a forest, dark but not especially cold, which Eames rather appreciates in his present state. Perhaps Arthur's looking to experiment a little.

Arthur's professional dreamscaping is – to allow a little redundancy – utterly professional, made to specs and functional to a fault. But when Arthur dreams recreationally – which happened rarely and only for brief moments, up until now, being forced to rely on other people's devices as they were – he tends to the lightly surreal, unexpected ways of playing with perception and optical illusions just on this side of being turned into visual puns.

For example, Eames could swear that _that branch_ , clearly a few feet away, is also at the same time nearly touching Eames' arm. Then said branch _is_ touching Eames' arm – is, in fact, tightening around it. Eames grins, pulling away lightly. This is Arthur's mind, and Eames is safe as houses in here.

If something is trying to grab Eames, it's because Arthur wants to play.

Possibly it was a mistake to let himself get distracted, because a second branch (or was it a vine? Eames needs to brush up on his botany) twines itself around Eames' ankle.

"Oy!" Eames yells. "That's some grabby vegetation you've got here!"

"I thought you'd appreciate it," Arthur says, directly behind Eames, sneaky little bastard that he is. "You can bond with it. You have so much in common."

"Oh?" Eames says, a little squeaky, because a vine – definitely a vine, that one – just wrapped around his thigh and got _decidedly_ familiar with Eames' bits. "I'm sure I'm much more polite than this."

"When you're being nice," Arthur acknowledges, and Eames will be all _sorts_ of nice to Arthur to get him to talk like that.

Eames loves it when Arthur talks. Not even in a sexy way, necessarily – he likes Arthur's brief, accurate summaries in meetings, his dry wit, the way he doesn't slur at all even when he's tired or drunk. Or fucking. Up until the time Arthur loses coherence altogether, his words retain their shape. His voice goes soft and raw but never breaks.

But when Arthur uses that precise tone to tell Eames exactly what he's going to do to him, well, fuck. It's all Eames can do to hold on and enjoy the ride.

"What shall I do for you, then?" Eames is slightly out of breath already. Arthur has that effect on him.

"Do, Mr. Eames?" Arthur circles him, comes to stand in the front. Eames feasts his eyes on Arthur in his snug trousers, the lovely sleek lines of his waistcoat. Arthur's almost better-looking dressed than naked, and considering how Arthur looks naked that's high bloody praise. "Why, you only need to stand there and take it."

Eames groans at that. He's made more dignified sounds getting punched in the stomach. " _Arthur._ "

"Shut up," Arthur says, affectionate. "No, nevermind, forget it. Why do I even bother asking?"

At this point, a vine brushes across Eames' lower lip. Eames exhales in a sharp breath, and that gives it all the opportunity it needs to slide inside Eames' mouth. The vine is maybe the thickness of Arthur's finger, which brings to mind many a happy memory of sucking on various bits of Arthur's anatomy, so it's possible that Eames' mouth is watering just a little bit.

It helps that the plant smells like Arthur, tastes somewhat similar – like Arthur mixed with the smell of wet earth, the taste of rain in Eames' mouth. Eames can do this. Eames could, in fact, stand to do this for a considerable length of time.

Then Eames looks down and sees that he's wrapped all around in vines, effectively immobilized. He can't quite talk at the moment, but he manages to convey _Kinky_ with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Arthur laughs. "You're one to talk." It's something of a disappointment that Arthur's still dressed. Then again, that means that Eames gets to watch Arthur ruin the line of his lovely suit with an even lovelier erection.

Eames bites down, not hard, just enough to signal that he'd like the use of his mouth back. The vine slides out, obliging. "Unzip for me, darling," Eames says, and Arthur rolls his eyes and complies. That's all he does, though, pulls down his fly and letting his cock hang out of his trousers, all the more obscene for the contrast.

Eames wants that in his mouth, he always does. He moans for it, and that just encourages the vine to come back into his mouth – and oh, look, it's got company now, a second vine the thickness of a gun's grip. Together they keep Eames' mouth nice and full and tasting of Arthur, which is a state of affairs that could only be improved if it were Arthur himself.

Arthur doesn't appear to be feeling neglected, though, not if the way his prick stands up to attention is any indicator. Eames' mouth is too crowded to hold anything more at the moment, so he wiggles as much as he can within the confines of the greenery to present his arse at an attractive angle.

Such a nice erection, Arthur has. Would be a shame to waste it.

"You do realize I'm not going to fuck you," Arthur says. Eames wonders if it's normal for him to want to kill Arthur dead. Not all dead, though. Just partially dead. Somewhat dead, like Eames dies inside when Arthur says things like that. Then Arthur says, "Yet," and all right, Eames very much prefers Arthur alive.

Something rubs against Eames' arse. Eames grins as much as he can around his mouthful and sticks his bum out for further groping. Eames is pretty sure he knows where Arthur is going with this, and he's pretty sure he approves.

The vine is slick, impossibly smooth as it pushes inside Eames. It's not a lot. Eames gives himself more than this when he's lonely and in need of relief, missing Arthur. It's just short of enough, in fact, but there's the promise of more as it swells close to the base, fucking Eames deeper.

Then it's pulling out, flicking across his hole in tiny barely-there movements, and Eames may change his mind about killing Arthur if he doesn't stop this bloody teasing.

Arthur looks amused. This does not detract from the fact that Arthur looks aroused as all fuck, all flushed and pretty, cock standing at proud attention.

 _Let me give it to you_ , Eames thinks, suddenly grateful for the vines blocking his mouth, that these words can't just spill out of him like they normally do. _Fuck me, let me suck you._

The vine at Eames' hole shoves in, sudden and hard, but Eames can take it. This isn't even near the limits of what Eames can take. He groans, eyes rolling back, sucking helplessly on the vines in his mouth, because _fuck_ this is good.

It's inside him now, and it's growing thicker, covering more territory until Eames makes a sound that might have been a scream if it could make its way out of his throat. The vines in his mouth take the opportunity to stake their claim further, sliding deeper. _Pulsing_ , for the love of God, like living things crawling into Eames because they're looking for warmth, and that should be terrifying except that if feels almost as if the plant _likes_ him.

As if in agreement, the vines around Eames' torso squeeze briefly, slipping on his skin in something between a caress and a hug. The vine in his arse is cock-thick now, Arthur-thick, perfect for Eames to clench against, to fuck himself on as much as he can in his confinement.

The sound of a sharply drawn breath calls Eames' attention from where it's happily engaged. Arthur rubbing himself off, slow but with a controlled twist to his movements that reveals how he's aching for a furious rhythm, for Eames to grab him tight and make him work for it.

Eames can't talk, but his eyes must speak volumes, because Arthur comes over (fucking _finally_ ), and the thinner vine removes itself from Eames' mouth. The vines he's tangled in twist and reshape, lifting him off his feet and bending him until Eames' mouth is at an appropriate cocksucking height. Arthur's got a focused look to him, hot enough to singe, and Eames is not at all shy about getting burned.

Arthur's cock is a stretch to fit in his mouth along with what's already there, but Eames opens wide and manages – if not Arthur's full length, then at least some of it. Arthur doesn't grab Eames' head, the way he does sometimes. No, the vines do that for him, forcing Eames forward when he doesn't even need to be persuaded.

The vine in his mouth is getting bloody persistent, pushing inward, so that Eames has no choice but to swallow around it. Arthur retreats, staring at Eames as if he's never seen Eames deep-throating something before.

"Take it," Arthur says, and there's the voice Eames can't say no to, the one that's soft and harsh all at once. "Make it come, Eames. Make me come."

This is a request that, to Eames' mind, Arthur should never have to make twice. He sucks, hollows his cheeks around the pulsing thing in his mouth, takes in more and more until it's shivering and twisting. There's a sudden sweetness in Eames' mouth.

The vine retreats, and Eames laughs. "Maple syrup?" He licks his lips, half for emphasis, half because he likes maple syrup, actually, and it's nice of Arthur to remember. "Let me assure you, darling, that your come tastes nothing like that."

"I have to do something original," Arthur says. "I don't want you thinking I have no imagination."

"Well," Eames begins to say, but that's cut short when the vine that's still in his arse chooses that moment to make its presence known. It does so by swelling, quickly enough that it makes Eames gasp, then pulling out with almost agonizing slowness.

Then it fucks back inside him and Eames lets his head hang, closing his eyes because it's taking all his remaining mental energy just to keep breathing.

There's a sliding sensation and a sudden cold spot on Eames' lower back. Then it's warm again, because Arthur's hand is resting there. "Good?" Arthur asks, perfunctory as if he were running a basic security check.

" _Fuck_ yes," Eames manages to pant.

Arthur's hand rubs at him, gentle, at odds with the brutal fucking Eames is taking. "Can you take more?"

Can he? Now, there's a question. "Won't know until we – oh, fuck, _Arthur_ , yes – until we try."

Arthur comes to stand behind him, vines slipping to make way wherever Arthur wants to put his hands. Then there's something – _That's a finger_ , Eames thinks, dazed, _that's Arthur's finger_ – it's pressing inside him, slow, pushing in with the vine and staying inside when it retreats.

It's a lot, but Eames can take a lot. Eames can take everything, for this, for Arthur. "Fuck me," he says, and he likes the way it settles on his tongue so he tries it again. "Fuck me, now, fuck, Arthur – "

"I heard you," Arthur says, amused, as he pushes his cock into Eames.

Eames freezes for a minute. God knows he's been around the block, been fucked more times than he can count and taken some sizable things in his time, but this. This is just obscene, how he feels himself stretching around Arthur and the vine, twice as large as what he's accustomed to and _fuck_ if it doesn't feel like more.

Arthur's saying something behind him, starting to pull back. And fuck, no, Eames can't have that. Eames' thighs operate all by themselves, snapping backwards until Arthur's all the way inside him, until they're home and safe.

The vine still slides in and out, slippery and filthy where the bottom of it is rubbing against the back of Eames' knee. The friction of it against Eames' taut skin is too much, and he's thrusting back and crying out and coming until he feels like he strained something.

He hangs limp, then, in the accommodating tangle of vines, letting it take his weight while Arthur fucks into him in short vicious strokes that Eames can feel all the way down to his toes. Eames only tries to squirm free once Arthur comes, and the vines let go, parting with something almost like a soundless sigh.

Then he's lying on the soft, mossy ground, Arthur's head drowsy on his shoulder, and Eames kisses him until the dream fades around them and they wake.


End file.
